


The Morning Before Yule

by thecaptainhedgehog (lyzeebyrd)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Backstory, Fluff, M/M, Multi, but everything is fine, dwalin is a good dad, slight panicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyzeebyrd/pseuds/thecaptainhedgehog
Summary: Does what it says on the tin. Just a brief snapshot of the morning before Yule in the life of Dwalin, Thorin, and Bilbo, and the three nephews that make their lives that much more eventful.





	The Morning Before Yule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [issaro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/issaro/gifts).



The warmth from the fireplace licked at Bilbo’s face, a great comfort in the cold stone caverns of the mountain. To be fair, he had come to find the mountain significantly homier than he had ever dreamed, no doubt due to the two big lugs lying with him in the biggest bed Bilbo had ever seen in his life. He felt himself pulled closer to a massive chest, Dwalin, if the shape of the metal now poking into his back was any indication. He would like to complain, but those little rings in his lovers’ chests could be the source of so much  _fun_.

Likely missing the warmth that Bilbo had been providing just moments earlier, Thorin sleepily shuffled closer and threw his arm across Bilbo’s waist and rested his hand against Dwalin’s hip. Bilbo prayed a quiet thanks to Yavanna that it was Dwalin snoring this morning and not Thorin. He could handle the loud gargling in his ears (years and years of sleeping in the Great Smials with scores of young Took cousins had prepared him to sleep through anything!), but he had quickly found the smell of dwarvish morning breath to be one of the foulest smelling things he had ever encountered, next to trolls and dragon dung, of course.

But Bilbo was grateful, of course. Why, this whole arrangement nearly hadn’t even been, and where would he be then? After the Battle of the Five Armies (years and years ago now, and oh, how people love to romanticize horrible, horrible events with such sweet names!), Bilbo had nearly skulked back off to the Shire with that blasted wizard, fearing that Thorin was dead and Dwalin thought him a traitor. Thorin had shorn both of his courting braids on the ramparts, and the idea that either of them would deign look upon his shamed face again was absolutely ridiculous, thank you very much, Gandalf!

In the end, it was dear, sweet Ori that held his hand and brought him back to the dwarvish camp, with tales of the two mighty warriors crying for want of their hobbit. The two, Dwalin, bandaged from head to toe with his arm in a sling, and Thorin, on what the healers had thought would be his deathbed, begged Bilbo’s forgiveness for their actions in the mountain. It was only their wounds that prevented them from shearing their own beards as an act of public shame. Well, that and Bilbo’s threats to never speak to either of them again. He insisted that all was forgiven.

At the first chance, Thorin and Dwalin forged two new courtship braids from copper and gold, the two metals braided together to emulate Bilbo’s soft locks. They were braided behind his ears, in the same place where Thorin had cut the originals from Bilbo’s hair. They remained there until, in about a year’s time, Bilbo’s hair had grown long enough to braid once more. The metal braids, however, remained on the mantel above the fireplace in the King’s chambers in the royal wing, a sharp and sometimes painful reminder of all that had passed.

The three married the following Durin’s day in the tradition of the dwarves. In a private ceremony in the days following, they married before their families and before their Company in the traditions of the hobbits. Few objected when Dwalin and Bilbo were crowned Prince Consorts, and those who did were met with the fierce blades of the Lady Dis and her sons, and so even fewer decided it was worth voicing their displeasure.

Ten years following their wedding and all of the unpleasantness that had preceded their joy, Bilbo returned from his semi-annual pilgrimage with a tiny hobbit lad in tow. His parents had drowned in the most unfortunate of accidents, and the lad was most out of place in the Great Smial. Having been distant cousins and close friends with both of the lad’s parents, Bilbo had taken it upon himself to adopt the boy and bring him to Erebor, with the promise that they would visit every other summer. Now, the lad was about eleven in hobbitish years, still not even a tween. He hadn’t even been born when Bilbo had first set out for his unexpected adventure, but in the years following the reclaiming of the Lonely Mountain, he had found a diligent pen pal in Drogo Baggins, and ultimately his son Frodo, once the lad had begun to learn his letters. The company had quickly accepted the lad into their ranks, and Dwalin and Thorin had eagerly accepted the boy as their tiny hobbitish son, and that was that.

And now, six months since returning home with the lad, Bilbo buried his face into Thorin’s chest and allowed himself a soft, contented hum. The noise was enough for Thorin’s eyes to pop open and for a dopey grin to spread across his face.

“Good morning,” he murmured as he leaned down to press a kiss to Bilbo’s lips. “Are you busy today?”

“Just touring the Tailors’ Guild, I think,” Bilbo whispered in return. “And picking up Frodo’s Yule clothes from Dori. And I think Dwalin mentioned sparring later.”

“Dwalin just likes to see you sweaty and out of breath,” Thorin chuckled.

“Aye,” Dwalin grumbled from the other side of the bed. “Then I ge’ ta wash the sweat off o’ ‘im after.”

Ten years of marriage and Bilbo still blushed as brightly as he had on their wedding night. He snarked back, “Maybe I’ll start taking my baths alone then.”

“Ye wouldn’a dare,” Dwalin growled, flipping Bilbo up to straddle his waist. “Ye wouldn’a be so cruel to deprive yer poor husband of seein’ this lovely flush, would ye?”

“Would this be the husband who forgets to come to bed half the time and falls asleep at his desk, or the husband that works me half to death then raps me across the belly with a training sword?” Bilbo snarked, moving from straddling Dwalin to straddling Thorin. “Because it sounds to me like one needs more incentive than the other.”

“Sounds more like ‘e needs to be put over my knee like a dwarfling again,” Dwalin grinned, reaching over to kiss his other husband good morning.

“Anyway,” Thorin blushed, “if everyone can finish by lunch, I would like the four of us to spend the rest of the day together, and tomorrow, before Yule dinner.”

“Of course, love,” Bilbo replied, while Dwalin hummed in agreement. Dwarves didn’t celebrate Yule as hobbits did, but they and the company had made a tradition of it, along with their respective families, and this would be Frodo’s first Yule in the mountain. “That sounds lovely. Tvasi should be in with first breakfast any moment now. Go wake Frodo, Dwalin.”

“Yes,  _azyungal_ ,” Dwalin grumbled but obeyed, though as he rose from the bed he had the gumption to reach over and squeeze a handful of Bilbo’s bum. Thorin snorted as Bilbo scowled, which earned him his own reprimand from the squirming hobbit.

Dwalin had never though he would be a father. He had always had more of predilection toward hammers rather than forges, and he had been in love with Thorin since childhood. It was in the aftermath of Azanulbizar that he had finally confessed and put his first braid into the other dwarf’s hair. So no, children had never been something he had even considered. But when Bilbo had brought home that tiny hobbit bairn, his heart had melted like the snow in the spring. He loved the little lad with everything he had, and the first time Frodo had looked up at him with those big blue eyes and said, “I wuv you, Unca Dwawin,” he swore he would feed both of his husbands to wild wargs before he ever allowed any harm to come to the lad.

And that was why it was so distressing when he found Frodo’s bed empty and cold. Dwalin immediately checked all of Frodo’s more common hiding places in his bedchamber: under the bed, under the desk, in the wardrobe, behind the door. And there was nothing. Nothing, that is, except for a small blood stain on the floor next to the bed.

“Guards!” he roared, and immediately the royal guards stationed outside of their suite came rushing into the room. “I want the whole mountain searched. Question whoever you have to! Find the lad, or I’ll have all yer beards and yer heads on spikes!”

While the younger and more inexperienced of the guards paled and rushed from the room to begin the search, one of the dwarves who had served under Dwalin for the last several decades stepped forward at attention.

“Captain,” the guard, a large ginger dwarf called Tormun said. “The little lad moved down to the princes’ chambers late last night. The lad had a nightmare and caught ‘is ‘and on the table. We wrapped it up and ‘e climbed inta bed to sleep with Their Highnesses.”

“Call off the search,” Dwalin conceded, already heading to the door, still dressed in nothing but his small clothes. Bilbo and Thorin followed immediately behind him, having come running as soon as they heard the commotion. Surely enough, as they found when they barged into Kili’s bedchamber, there was Frodo, snug between his two favorite cousins.

Fili sat up with a low groan a pressed a single finger against his lips.

“Don’t wake them,” he whispered. “Took half the night to get him back to sleep. Think he had a nightmare about the two of us drowning. Wouldn’t even get into bed unless we both agreed to sleep with him.”

The three adults let out a collective sigh of relief, having found the boy. “Alright, but you’ll join us for second breakfast in a few hours,” Bilbo ordered.

“Of course, Uncle Bilbo,” Fili agreed with a tired smile. He laid back down and wrapped a protective arm around his little cousin and his younger brother, even as each of his uncles pressed kisses to their foreheads, grateful to see their youngest nephew in one piece.

Upon return their chambers, Thorin huffed, “One of those lads is going to give me a heart attack.”

“And complain to me constantly when they have to ascend the throne,” Bilbo agreed, sitting down at the table for first breakfast.

“Aye, but the lads have grown up,” Dwalin offered. “They look after Frodo like ‘e’s their own brother. They’ve both come a long way in their training. Fili will be a fine king one of these days, one all of my dwarrow have said they will be honored to protect.”

There was pride in his voice, and he did not bother trying to disguise it. “Aye, the lads will be fine,” Thorin agreed. “And Frodo will be, too.”

“Six months ago, he wouldn’t speak to anyone but me,” Bilbo smiled. “And now… I was afraid we would have to return to the Shire for good, I admit. I’m happy that he’s accepted Fili and Kili as he has. He’s smiling again, and he makes the both of you smile, and nothing makes me happier.”

The three finished their breakfasts quietly, each mentally preparing themselves for their duties for the day. A small smile graced each of their faces, for they each knew of the gifts they had hidden away for one another. They would have time to cuddle Frodo later, to bury themselves within one another that evening, and to celebrate Yule come morning.


End file.
